Part 3
Chapter 11

GRANDFATHER was struck by Laurence's idea that
the historic chair should utter a voice, and thus
pour forth the collected wisdom of two centuries.
The old gentleman had once possessed no
inconsiderable share of fancy; and even now its
fading sunshine occasionally glimmered among his
more sombre reflections.

As the history of his chair had exhausted all
his facts, Grandfather determined to have recourse
to fable. So, after warning the children that
they must not mistake this story for a true one,
he related what we shall call

GRANDFATHER'S DREAM.

Laurence and Clara, where were you last night?
Where were you, Charley, and dear little Alice?
You had all gone to rest, and left old Grandfather
to meditate alone in his great chair. The lamp
had grown so dim that its light hardly illuminated
the alabaster shade. The wood-fire had crumbled
into heavy embers, among which the little flames
danced, and quivered, and sported about like
fairies.

And here sat Grandfather all by himself. He
knew that it was bedtime; yet he could not help
longing to hear your merry voices, or to hold a
comfortable chat with some old friend; because
then his pillow would be visited by pleasant
dreams. But, as neither children nor friends
were at hand, Grandfather leaned back in the great
chair and closed his eyes, for the sake of
meditating more profoundly.

And, when Grandfather's meditations had grown
very profound indeed, he fancied that he heard a
sound over his head, as if somebody were preparing
to speak.

"Hem!" it said, in a dry, husky tone.
"H-e-m! Hem!"

As Grandfather did not know that any person was
in the room, he started up in great surprise, and
peeped hither and thither, behind the chair, and
into the recess by the fireside, and at the dark
nook yonder near the bookcase. Nobody could he
see.

"Poh!" said Grandfather to himself,
"I must have been dreaming."

But, just as he was going to resume his seat,
Grandfather happened to look at the great chair.
The rays of firelight were flickering upon it in
such a manner that it really seemed as if its
oaken frame were all alive. What! did it not move
its elbow? There, too It certainly lifted one of
its ponderous fore legs, as if it had a notion of
drawing itself a little nearer to the fire.
Meanwhile the lion's head nodded at Grandfather
with as polite and sociable a look as a lion's
visage, carved in oak, could possibly be expected
to assume. Well, this is strange!

"Good evening, my old friend," said the dry
and husky voice, now a little clearer than before.
"We have been intimately acquainted so long that I
think it high time we have a chat together."

Grandfather was looking straight at the lion's
head, and could not be mistaken in supposing that
it moved its lips. So here the mystery was all
explained.

"I was not aware," said Grandfather,
with a civil salutation to his oaken
companion, "that you possessed the faculty of
speech. Otherwise I should often have
been glad to converse with such a solid, useful,
and substantial if not brilliant member of
society."

"Oh!" replied the ancient chair, in
a quiet and easy tone, for it had now cleared its
throat of the dust of ages, "I am naturally a
silent and incommunicative sort of character.
Once or twice in the course of a century I unclose
my lips. When the gentle Lady Arbella departed
this life I uttered a groan. When the honest
mint-master weighed his plump daughter against the
pine-tree shillings I chuckled audibly at the
joke. When old Simon Bradstreet took the place of
the tyrant Andros I joined in the general huzza,
and capered on my wooden legs for joy. To be
sure, the by-standers were so fully occupied with
their own feelings that my sympathy was quite
unnoticed."

"And have you often held a private chat
with your friends?" asked Grandfather.

"Not often," answered the chair.
"I once talked with Sir William Phipps, and
communicated my ideas about the witchcraft
delusion. Cotton Mather had several
conversations with me, and derived great
benefit from my historical reminiscences. In the
days of the Stamp Act I whispered in the ear of
Hutchinson, bidding him to remember what stock
his countrymen were descended of, and to think
whether the spirit of their forefathers had
utterly departed from them. The last man whom I
favored with a colloquy was that stout old
republican, Samuel Adams."

"And how happens it," inquired
Grandfather, "that there is no record nor
tradition of your conversational abilities! It is
an uncommon thing to meet with a chair that can
talk."

"Why, to tell you the truth," said
the chair, giving itself a hitch nearer to the
hearth, "I am not apt to choose the
most suitable moments for unclosing my lips.
Sometimes I have inconsiderately begun to speak,
when my occupant, lolling back in my arms, was
inclined to take an after-dinner nap. Or perhaps
the impulse to talk may be felt at midnight, when
the lamp burns dim and the fire crumbles into
decay, and the studious or thoughtful man finds
that his brain is in a mist. Oftenest I have
unwisely uttered my wisdom in the ears of sick
persons, when the inquietude of fever made them
toss about upon my cushion. And so it happens,
that though my words make a pretty strong
impression at the moment, yet my auditors
invariably remember them only as a dream. I should
not wonder if you, my excellent friend, were to do
the same to-morrow morning."

"Nor I either," thought Grandfather
to himself.

However, he thanked this respectable old
chair for beginning the conversation, and begged
to know whether it had anything particular to
communicate.

"I have been listening attentively to your
narrative of iny adventures," replied the
chair; "and it must be owned that your
correctness entitles you to be held up as a
pattern to biographers. Nevertheless, there are a
few omissions which I should be glad to see
supplied. For instance, you make no mention of
the good knight Sir Richard Saltonstall, nor of
the famous Hugh Peters, nor of those old regicide
judges, Whalley, Goffe, and Dixwell. Yet I have
borne the weight of all those distinguished
characters at one time or another."

Grandfather promised amendment if ever he
should have an opportunity to repeat his
narrative. The good old chair, which still seemed
to retain a due regard for outward appearance,
then reminded him how long a time had
passed since it had been provided with a new
cushion. It likewise expressed the opinion that
the oaken figures on its back would show to much
better advantage by the aid of a little varnish.

"And I have had a complaint in this
joint," continued the chair, endeavoring to
lift one of its legs, "ever since Charley
trundled his wheelbarrow against me."

"It shall be attended to," said
Grandfather. "And now, venerable chair, I
have a favor to solicit. During an existence of
more than two centuries you have had a familiar
intercourse with men who were esteemed the wisest
of their day. Doubtless, with your capacious
understanding, you have treasured up many an
invaluable lesson of wisdom. You certainly have
had time enough to guess the riddle of life. Tell
us, poor mortals, then, how we may be
happy."

The lion's head fixed its eyes thoughtfully
upon the fire, and the whole chair assumed an
aspect of deep meditation. Finally it beckoned to
Grandfather with its elbow, and made a step
sideways towards him, as if it had a very
important secret to communicate.

"As long as I have stood in the midst of
human affairs," said the chair, with a very
oracular enunciation, "I have constantly
observed that
JUSTICE, TRUTH, and LOVE are the
chief ingredients of every happy life."

"Justice, Truth, and Love!" exclaimed
Grandfather. "We need not exist two
centuries to find out that these qualities are
essential to our happiness. This is no secret.
Every human being is born with the instinctive
knowledge of it."

"Ah!" cried the chair, drawing back
in surprise. "From what I have observed of
the dealings of man with man,
and nation with nation, I never
should have suspected that they knew this
all-important secret. And, with this eternal
lesson written in your soul, do you ask me to sift
new wisdom for you out of my petty existence of
two or three centuries?"

"But, my dear chair"--said
Grandfather.

"Not a word more," interrupted the
chair; "here I close my lips for the next
hundred years. At the end of that period, if I
shall have discovered any new precepts of
happiness better than what Heaven has already
taught you, they shall assuredly be given to the
world."

In the energy of its utterance the oaken chair
seemed to stamp its foot, and trod (we hope
unintentionally) upon Grandfather's toe. The old
gentleman started, and found that he had been
asleep in the great chair, and that his heavy
walking-stick had fallen down across his foot.

"Grandfather," cried little Alice,
clapping her hands, "you must dream a new
dream every night about our chair!"

Laurence, and Clara, and Charley said the same.
But the good old gentleman shook his head, and
declared that here ended the history, real or
fabulous, of
GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR.